


i think they got your number

by orphan_account



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019 Stanley Cup Playoffs, I'm ashamed of myself, I'm so sorry, M/M, PLAY GLORIA, St. Louis Blues, THE BLUES WON THE MF STANLEY CUP, but more importantly, channeling two months of playoff stress into the sad lack of blues fic out there, this is arguably crack, who fucking knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 08:38:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19247653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Look at the rookie go,” Joel crows, slinging his arm around Jordan’s shoulder as they troop onto the bus to the airport. “Almost like he’s been around for a while, eh?”“Rookie,” Jordan scoffs, but he’s grinning again. He’s got a nice smile, in a world of busted up hockey teeth. It distracts from his fucking nose.





	i think they got your number

**Author's Note:**

> don't even read this it's not for you
> 
> seriously
> 
> title from gloria because do you think i'm a fucking idiot

Joel isn’t into dick. There’s no reason for him to be. He’s a pro athlete in a sports city, and he’s been told he’s a decent looking guy. It isn’t hard to find girls, and even if it was, Joel’s busy. He doesn’t always have time to hook up, doesn’t always want to, and hooking up with guys would be a risk to his career that he doesn’t need.

 

It’s not like he’s curious, either. That’s what juniors are for, anyway. Girls were harder to find then, and Joel was sharing hotel rooms with other repressed teenaged boys on a weekly basis. It was fine because it was sex, but it wasn’t better than girls. It was awkward and those were his teammates, and Joel’d seen disgusting things involving those same dicks in the locker room. It was fine, but it wasn’t anything he cared to repeat.

 

When he was in the minors in Chicago, he even let himself get picked up by a guy once. Joel was drunk and dancing and next thing he knew, the girl in front of him had disappeared and a guy had slipped in behind him, hands falling low on his hips. It hadn’t felt bad, so Joel had followed him into the bathroom and gotten a pretty good bj, but like, a mouth is a mouth, and no one complains about a blowjob. Joel gets the guy back, anyway, just to try it.

 

That was the last time, though. Sometimes he notices guys as being attractive, but so does everyone. Like, his whole first year in St. Louis he was a little flustered around Colton. He was taller than Joel and built like a brick shithouse and so good at hockey it was intimidating, and he’s just so fucking nice. That passed once he got to know Colton, once he figured out that behind the smile and the hockey he was just a huge dork.

 

He didn’t ever want to fuck Colton, though. Joel is surrounded by good-looking guys he doesn’t want to fuck. He doesn’t want to fuck Ryan, even though the first thing he thought when he saw him was _pretty eyes_. He definitely doesn’t want Petro’s dick, even though he’s like, a specimen. Petro’s like an older brother; he’s got all those babies, which are super cute and fun from a distance as long as Joel doesn’t have to touch them.

 

Which is why it’s such a fucking surprise when he watches Jordan shut out the Flyers in Philly in his first NHL start and thinks, clear as day, _I want to suck his dick_. He shoves that thought in the mental equivalent of a penalty box, grins, and grabs JB by the shoulders in front of the net.

 

Jordan is smiley in the locker room, looking kind of manic in the way only goalies really get. He blanks his face so fast when media trickles in that it would scare Joel if he didn’t know him so well, starts talking in hockey banalities so intense that you’d think he’d been at this for years.

 

“Look at the rookie go,” Joel crows, slinging his arm around Jordan’s shoulder as they troop onto the bus to the airport. “Almost like he’s been around for a while, eh?”

 

“Rookie,” Jordan scoffs, but he’s grinning again. He’s got a nice smile, in a world of busted up hockey teeth. It distracts from his fucking nose.

 

“That’s you, Binner,” Joel says agreeably. Jordan knocks him away, still smiling, sending Joel stumbling a few steps. Jordan’s always been such a presence on the ice, that it’s only when he’s out of the pads and in a suit that Joel remembers that he’s got like four inches and thirty pounds on him. And still, it’s always been easy to forget, because not only does Joel often go months without seeing him, but Jordan can throw his weight around with the best of them.

 

Right now, Joel feels like Jordan’s got half a foot on him. He feels like Jordan could crush him, put him somewhere and keep him there, give him bruises—

 

Joel gives his brain a game misconduct and resists the urge to beat his head against the bus window. On a fucking bus. Not cool, brain.

 

….

 

The next weekend he picks up a girl when the guys go out after a win. Borts wolf whistles when he walks her out of the bar. When Joel looks over his shoulder at the booth, Colton is giving him a ridiculous thumbs up and Borts is making a lewd gesture with his hands. Jordan is drinking a water and studiously listening to something that Jake is saying.

 

The girl is good. She’s hot, tall, brunette and built like an athlete. Her name is Emma. She says she plays soccer at SLU, that she’s a senior majoring in psychology, and that she watches some hockey but that she’s from Denver and mostly an Avs fan. She clearly knows vaguely who he is, just as clearly doesn’t care, and rides him within an inch of his life when she takes him back to her apartment. He eats her out after, makes her come twice. Emma gives him a Gatorade and a protein bar when they’re done, and they eat in the kitchen and talk about the Cardinals’ chances this year. No matter where you’re from, you become a Cards fan within a month of living in St. Louis.

 

Her roommate comes in while he’s there, takes one look at him slouched against the counter in his sweatpants and nothing else, and gives Emma a fist bump before walking straight to her bedroom. Emma laughs, leads him back to her bedroom, where she sucks him off and lets him spend the night. He leaves in the morning with scratches on his back, a hickey on his inner thigh, and Emma’s phone number.

 

“Holy shit, kid,” Bo says when Joel strips his shirt off to change before practice. “Did you get mauled?” The rest of the guys there turn in near unison to stare at him, and just as quickly start chirping the life out of him.

 

“What’s happening?” Vladdy asks as he walks in. He glances between Bo, who is trying really hard not to laugh at the chaos he’s created, Joel, who is blushing, and weirdly, Jordan, who is putting on his pads with his full, considerable, concentration.

 

“Eddie got laid!” Borts sings gleefully from where he and Colton are giggling like schoolgirls.

 

“Oh,” Vladdy says, and narrows his eyes at Joel, before nodding. “Good for Eddie.” He ruffles Jordan’s hair, smacks Colton on the back of the head, and disappears back into the training rooms, having clearly decided that he’s Alternate Captained enough for today.

 

That practice is good, as more and more have been lately. January is getting better and better as the month goes on, and Joel—everyone—knows that Jordan is a part of that. They win more than they lose, they win almost every game Jordan starts, and even the games they lose don’t feel as bad as they had been. It puts Joel in a better mood, lightens the mood in the room by a ton.

 

….

 

A week after Emma gives him her number, he texts and asks if she wants to get drinks sometime. She turns him down on the date but invites him over to fuck and watch a movie, and just like that Joel has a pretty awesome friends-with-benefits thing going on. It doesn’t really help with the Jordan situation, but Emma is cool, and the sex is good. Joel doesn’t think that the Jordan situation could be helped by Emma anyway. After every win, Jordan gets more and more confident, and Joel’s brain is coming up with new and creative ways to make long plane rides slightly uncomfortable.

 

“Bro,” Emma says one Monday night. They’re ostensibly watching soccer, but really Joel is half-asleep with her fingers in his hair. Joel got back for a brutal three-week roadie only to play a brutal game at home against the Preds, then a brutal game in Nashville against the Preds. They got the wins to keep up a now-6 game winning streak, but Joel still feels like he got hit by a truck. He came here because he didn’t want to be alone and he basically had the day off, and a no-strings-attached orgasm sounded fucking perfect after all of that. It was; Emma sat on his face and then jerked him off after, then high-fived him and started to play with his hair. Emma is a fucking beauty.

 

“ _Bro_ ,” she says again, and pulls at Joel’s hair. He groans into her thigh, and she pulls again.

 

“Yeah?” he mumbles.

 

“Your phone’s ringing,” she says. Joel reaches over her and fumbles for his pants, his phone still in the pocket. Emma gets up and puts on some sweats and a t-shirt.

 

“Do you need me to go?” Joel asks, frowning at his phone. He has a missed call from Jordan.

 

“Nah, I’m not studying tonight. Senior year, you know?” she says.

 

“I definitely don’t,” Joel says. Joel is a Canadian, and Canadians, unless they’re Colton Parayko, do Juniors. The closest Joel has ever been to college is when he helped his brother move in when he was like fifteen.

 

Emma rolls her eyes. “I’m gonna order Thai. You want in?” she asks.

 

“Yeah, for sure, let me just take this. I can pay,” he says. Emma shrugs and leaves the room, and Joel presses call back.

 

Jordan picks up at the first ring. “Hey,” he says, kind of breathless.

 

Joel frowns again. “Hey,” he says back slowly. “Are you good?”

 

“What?” Jordan asks. “Oh, yeah, I was just running.”

 

“You were—” Joel starts, then shakes his head. “You’re fucking crazy. What’s up, Binny?”

 

“Just—can I come over?” Jordan asks quickly. “Not if you’re busy, I’m just so fucking sick of hotels.”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Joel says. “Just give me like 30 to get home.”

 

“No, it’s fine,” Jordan starts.

 

“Dude. Jordan. Don’t fucking even,” Joel says, looking for his shirt. He finds it under the bed and pulls it on. “I’ll see you in a minute.”

 

“Okay,” Jordan says, then hangs up.

 

Joel calls a raincheck with Emma and gives her twenty bucks for his share of the food. She shrugs, says she and her roommate will eat it, and waves at him as he leaves. He drives a little bit like an asshole to get across town from Emma’s place, but this is St. Louis, so everyone is driving like an asshole anyway. They don’t have driver’s ed in Missouri, for some fucking reason. Joel is never riding with Patty ever again.

 

Jordan still beats him home and is sitting in Joel’s lobby with a hat pulled low over his face when Joel walks in. Joel steals his hat and waves at the doorman as Jordan chases after him into the elevator. Joel grins.

 

“You look like a mess,” Jordan says flatly, snatching his hat back. He’s got his media face on, but the crazy goalie eyes are only running at about a four, so Joel figures he’s probably not in crisis.

 

“Thank you,” he says cheerfully.

 

“Seriously, what happened to you?” Jordan asks, then blinks. The goalie eyes notch up to a seven. “You did not.”

 

“What?” Joel says innocently.

 

“You did not just leave a hookup to let me crash in your apartment,” Jordan says.

 

“We were done!” Joel says. “Seriously, it’s fine. Emma’s cool, I bought her takeout.”

 

“You’re an idiot,” Jordan says, but he doesn’t seem upset enough to do anything about it. Joel goes to shower when he lets them in and comes out to find Jordan asleep on the couch. He prods Jordan into the guest bedroom—they have a game tomorrow, and it’s against New Jersey but it’s still a game, one that Jordan should not sleep on the couch before—while Jordan bitches, half asleep and pissed off about it. It’s cute.

 

Joel blinks and thinks that he should probably go to bed.

 

….

 

The win streak is kind of unreal, the kind of thing Joel has never experienced before. It has to end eventually, and Joel is kind of crushed when it does, but it’s still crazy. They went from _bottom of the league_ to a playoff spot in less than two months. Jordan won rookie of the month. The city is hyped up about the team; they’re selling out games and people are wearing Blues gear in public again.

 

Emma starts dating her roommate and tells him she wants to break it off, but that they’ll hit him up if they decide they want a third sometime. It’s an interesting and very intimidating offer, and he tells her so. He goes over to eat pizza and watch the Avs lose anyway and comes home without having sex with anyone. He doesn’t really miss it as much as he thought he would.

 

Jordan finally seems to feel secure enough to move out of the hotel and into an apartment. Joel helps him, even though Jordan only has like three bags of clothing to his name. Jordan’s new place is within jogging distance of Joel’s, which means Jordan shows up a lot unannounced.

 

“This is yours,” Joel says, throwing a key at Jordan’s face where he’s slumped over and playing NHL ’19 on Joel’s couch. “I don’t want to let you in anymore. You know my doorman better than I do.”

 

“Thanks,” Jordan says. He decides to break out that smile again, for the first time in what feels like weeks. Joel’s heart does a weird thing that he doesn’t think about.

 

By the middle of March, they’ve clinched a playoff spot, and by the end they’re solidly third in the division. Jordan supposedly lives in his own apartment but seems to spend all the time they have at home in Joel’s guest room, not that Joel’s complaining.

 

It’s just making the whole Jordan situation near impossible to ignore, is all. Joel is coming to realize that it’s one thing to want to suck your teammate and longtime bro’s dick. It’s another to think he has a nice smile and nice hands. That’s gay, like, quantifiably. Joel, has never, as far as he knows, been quantifiably gay.

 

He panics for a day, then he realizes that playoffs are about to start and that is much more pressing than whatever feelings Joel might be feeling right now, especially the ones pertaining to Jordan. Jordan’s goals-against average is more important than that now.

 

Winning against Winnipeg is a relief. They didn’t get eliminated in the first round, yay, St. Louis can breathe easy about it. They aren’t Tampa, thank god. Joel reminds himself to buy Emma a drink for what the Avs just did to the Flames.

 

Dallas is more fun but also more constantly terrifying. They take the Blues to seven, and then to double OT, with Bishop making some of the most mind-bending saves Joel has ever seen in his life to keep the Stars in it. When Patty gets the winner, everyone loses their fucking minds, fans and the team alike. Patty bear hugs Coach. It’s great.

 

In the handshake line, Joel can tell Jordan is a little starry-eyed over Bishop, now that the series is over. He hides it so well that no one can probably tell, but Joel thinks it’s funny anyway.

 

Against San Jose, Joel gets the unique experience of watching Jordan scream at a ref over the game 3 OT loss. He’s pissed himself—madder than he thinks he’s ever been before—but Jordan really goes for it, skating after the refs down the ice. Schenner breaks a stick, Petro has a few choice words for the media, and Joel can feel the team’s resolve harden into anger in the locker room. The Sharks aren’t going to get another one back.

 

They score twice early and game four and Jordan stands on his head to keep them in it for the win, and then—that’s basically it. The Sharks whimper out games five and six, and the Blues are in the final. The city loses its mind. It’s the biggest thing that’s happened in St. Louis sports in twenty years.

 

And then… well, and then there’s Boston.

 

….

 

Joel lifts the Cup over his head and is blindsided by the emotion, the joy. He watches Colton hand it to Jordan and is in awe.

 

….

 

The locker room is chaos, after. Within sixty seconds Joel has shotgunned a beer and had more champagne sprayed on him than he’s ever drank in his life. Within ten minutes he’s wasted, with all the weight that he’s lost and sleep that he’s missed catching up to him along with the elation and joy. His entire body hurts. He’s never been so happy in his life.

 

Jordan comes up to him, grinning like a maniac even though there are cameras everywhere, and Joel feels like losing his mind, like grabbing Jordan by the shoulders and going for it in front of his entire team and half the sports media on the continent. He doesn’t, just grins back and pulls Jordan in for a hug. Jordan laughs in his ear, giddy and drunk, and Joel wonders absently if he could just never move.

 

The next few hours pass in a drunk, happy haze. He loves his team, and he loves the cup, and he loves Coach and the equipment guys and his mom. He tells them all, makes sure they know.

 

“Okay,” says Bo, who shows up an indeterminate amount of time later. Joel has been moved from his brother to his dad to his mom, mumbling incoherently into their shoulders and crying a little. “I got sent to collect him. We need to get out of Boston before we’re run out.”

 

“Oh, no problem,” Joel’s mom says, basically pushing Joel into Bo. “We’ll be following you.”

 

“Thanks again,” Bo says, and drags Joel away and back toward the locker room.

 

“How’re you sober?” Joel slurs.

 

“I’m not a lightweight, Eddie,” Bo says patiently. He’s strong and sturdy where he’s basically holding Joel up. Bo is the best.

 

“Thank you,” Bo laughs. Joel gets a new beer as soon as he steps into the room, and then is herded into something resembling his game day suit. Everyone is in laughable states of disarray as they get onto the bus. Ryan didn’t even button his shirt.

 

They’re basically gods once they land in St. Louis. Any bar they walk in they get free drinks, and Joel fucking takes advantage. Jordan can’t go ten feet without someone stopping him with offers of alcohol or sex or drugs or firstborn children. He doesn’t take advantage, luckily.

 

The only instructions Joel has been given were to show up for the parade on Saturday, clean and wearing his jersey and marginally sober. He takes that to mean that he can stay drunk until then, so he does.

 

Friday night he leaves the club he’s in at three am, gets a snapchat from Jordan of the pyramid of beer cans sitting on Joel’s kitchen table, and orders an Uber home before he can think twice about it. He signs the Uber guy’s rally towel in something approximating a signature, and stumbles home.

 

Jordan is standing in the kitchen, back from wherever he’s been for the night and holding a beer can. Joel takes it out of his hand and backs him up against the counter, far enough that Jordan has to tilt his head to look at him.

 

“Joel,” Jordan says solemnly. He’s shaved his terrible beard. His eyes are doing the crazy thing again, at like a nine, but in a way that feels good for Joel.

 

“I like it when you say my name,” Joel says dreamily. Jordan grabs him by the neck and drags him into a kiss.

 

It doesn’t start chaste, they’re both too drunk for that. Joel opens his mouth immediately, lets Jordan in, and gets his hands on Jordan’s hips. Joel remembers that he’s wearing a crop top for some reason at the same time Jordan’s nails scratch over his abs. He breaks away, panting, and fixes his mouth on Jordan’s neck.

 

“I saw pictures of you in this fucking shirt,” Jordan gasps, lacing a hand in Joel’s hair and _pulling_. Joel gasps this time, mouth opening, so he takes advantage and bites down. “ _Fuck_.”

 

Jordan’s eyes flash and next thing Joel knows, he’s been muscled into the living room and onto the couch. Jordan’s straddling him, hips moving, and Joel lets out an embarrassingly high sound that Jordan swallows.

 

“Fuck, Jordan,” Joel says. “Let me—I want to.”

 

Joel watches Jordan swallow, hard, and then he nods and clambers off Joel’s lap. Joel scrambles onto the floor between Jordan’s legs, unbuttons his jeans, pulls out Jordan’s dick, and just kind of goes for it.

 

After—Joel’s shirt is sticking to his skin with sweat and god knows what else, he’s sobered up enough that his head is pounding a little, and the taste of cum is lingering unpleasantly in his mouth—Joel laughs with his face pillowed on Jordan’s thigh. Jordan’s been blinking at the ceiling for the last five minutes, but he quirks a fond smile down at Joel. Joel’s heart makes a valiant attempt to escape his chest.

 

“I’m a dumbass,” Joel says, stumbling up and into the kitchen, stripping off his shirt. He takes a swig from the mostly-empty bottle of vodka on the counter to rinse out his mouth and stave off the headache. “A fucking idiot!” he yells.

 

“Is this about me?” Jordan asks, coming into the kitchen. He takes the bottle out of Joel’s hands and takes a sip. Joel hasn’t seen him drink before this at all since Chicago; that’s why his eyes and entire brain fixate on Jordan’s lips around the neck of the bottle. Joel slumps to sit on the floor. “Eddie?”

 

Joel groans into his hands. “I caught feels,” he mumbles.

 

“Oh,” Jordan says blankly. “Good.”

 

“Good?” Joel asks, shocked. Jordan pulls him back onto his feet and wraps his arms around him.

 

“Yeah,” he says. He grins, flashing his perfect teeth in a sharkish smile. “We’re going to bed now. You’re a wreck.”

 

They don’t manage to actually sleep for another few hours. When Joel does finally pass out, he’s woken up a criminally short amount of time later by an alarm. He groans and slaps around for it, only to connect with something soft and fleshy and not his phone.

 

Oh right. Jordan, who swears and actually fucking bites Joel’s hand. Jordan was a thing that happened, for sure. Joel opens his eyes to be indignant and is rewarded with the fun mix of drunk and hungover that only means bad things.

 

There’s really no point in trying to sober up, so he and Jordan finish off the rest of the vodka and eat protein bars in the kitchen. Jordan goes to shower and Joel follows, which leads to a slightly cramped and unproductive twenty minutes that leaves them nominally cleaner than they were before. Joel gets dressed when Jordan disappears into the guest room and emerges in clean clothes. He steals Joel’s nice sunglasses, even though it’s pouring rain.

  
The parade and rally are awesome, the whole city turning up on the streets with the sole objectives to 1) get wasted and 2) cheer at anything that moves and is vaguely blue. Joel does a jello shot someone throws from the crowd. He chugs beer when they tell him to, because he’s a man of the people. He’s pretty sloppy by the end of it, but then he sees Brett Hull and feels better about himself. _Then_ he sees pictures of Jordan stealing some kid’s tuba and feels fucking great about himself. Ryan stole a cop’s bike and they still let him have a microphone later. Colton stole a news camera. Joel is doing amazing.

 

“You good?” Joel asks Jordan, who is slumping against him in the elevator. Joel was getting alcohol thrown at him. He doesn’t even want to know what Jordan got.

 

Jordan hums vaguely. “Hey, Eddie,” he murmurs. “I caught feels.”

 

“You’re a wreck,” Joel laughs, and kisses Jordan on the side of the head.

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to both the snapchat pictures of joel edmundson's crop top floating around and the guy who was throwing out jello shots at the cup parade
> 
> god bless


End file.
